


Three Studies of Stefani Germanotta

by littlerhymes



Category: Lady Gaga (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Gaga is a woman of many disguises. Medieval Europe au for au_bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Studies of Stefani Germanotta

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to SQ for beta-reading!

**1\. Gaga breaches the defences**

The nun who enters the palazzo grounds on feast day - amidst the midday bustle of merchants, nobles, peasants, gypsies and jongleurs - excites little attention and less comment.

She is only a nun, after all. This is obvious to anyone who can see her habit and wimple, her piously downturned eyes, the rosary that swings from her belt. It's as clear as sky that the basket slung over her arm must be full of bread, or bandages, or sternly-knitted socks. It's as plain as day that her intentions are pure and good.

The nun's billowing skirts conceal, of course, only her legs (and may god forgive you for thinking on a nun's legs). There is certainly no dagger strapped to the inside of her thigh, no vial of poison tucked into her belt.

And when the guards at the gate nod and wave her through impatiently, surely you do not see her red lips twisting, or her eyes darkening with anticipation, or her -

No, no nun would ever look so cunning and so lovely and so cruel. You have imagined it. You have been deceived by the shadows cast by her wimple. So you look away, crossing yourself as you do, as though to banish the very thought.

(Later, much much later, one of the serving girls of whom you're fond will tell you about the wicker basket she found in one of the empty guestrooms, and what she found inside.

"A nun's habit," she says, with a look that dares you to disbelieve her, "a habit and a wimple, all crumpled up and crushed into a basket! Can you imagine?

"La," she adds after a moment, with a proud toss of her head, "I can see you're not listening to a word I say," entirely mistaking your silence.)

  
**2\. Gaga advances her cause**

The lady in the red kirtle and the feathered mask catches the Duke's eye almost at once. Her figure is ripe, her steps are graceful, and as she turns about the crowded hall it becomes clear her inviting smile and the bold regard of her eyes are for him alone.

The Duke raises his goblet and finds it empty, again. Before he can even lift his hand, the red-kirtled lady moves silkily across the floor to pour him the wine herself. She leans to fill his cup, and as she does so he catches a scent of her perfume, feels her breasts brush against his arm.

The lady, watching him watching her, curves a smile beneath the rim of her golden domino. She lets her hand trail over the velvet of his sleeve before she turns away, glancing back just once to see if he will follow.

The Duke drains his goblet, and does.

It is dark in the gardens. The Duke follows the sound of her pointed shoes tap-tapping across the flagstones, the half-glimpsed red flag of her skirts, and her light, mocking laugh.

Finally he corners her, far from the sounds of the carnival, and she lets him push her back against the wall. She wraps her arms around his neck, still laughing. "Did you enjoy the wine, your grace?" she whispers against his mouth.

"The wine?" he repeats stupidly, just before he doubles over in sudden agony.

It takes him some moments to realise what's happening. First he staggers back, heaving for breath, before stumbling to his knees. "Help me," he croaks, and clutches at the embroidered hem of her dress. "Fetch the servants, I-" and he breaks off coughing, the stones splattered with a fine spray of blood.

The lady does nothing except take a tiny, delicate step backwards to pull her skirts out of his grip. "Did you truly not recognise me, your grace?" she says, and lifts a white hand to her mask to reveal her beautiful face. "Do you know me now?"

"Germanotta," the Duke spits redly, the word gurgling in his throat. "Germanotta!"

It is far too late, of course, to do anything with this knowledge, to do anything at all but die, which he does with the name on his lips like a curse.

  
**3\. Gaga makes good her escape**

Picture a stone wall, and a rope thrown across it, and a boy climbing over it.

On one side of the wall there's a palazzo and a garden and a thousand drunken guests. There's also a dead man propped beneath a rose bush, a spill of red about him that might be blood or a woman's discarded skirts or an overturned goblet of wine.

On the other, there's two sleek horses, a cart, and the highway, with the moon hanging above like a lamp lighting the way.

Sitting astride the wall, on neither side, the boy looks back toward the garden. A slow smile spreads across his face as though he's well pleased with this night's work. Then he swings his other leg over the wall and nimbly shins down the length of rope to the ground.

He makes his way without error to the shadow where the horses are waiting; it's clear this is a rendezvous. He swings easily into the seat of the cart and leans to embrace his companion with a passion that would make any observer blush.

Hooded and cloaked as he or she is, it's hard to tell whether the boy's lover is a man or woman, fair or dark.

Indeed, on closer inspection, is the boy in fact a woman? It _could_ be a woman, her hair pinned up beneath her cap and chest bound flat beneath her doublet, her slim legs close-fitted in hose...

The lovers pause to draw breath before reluctantly ending their embrace. The boy takes up the reins, clucks to the horses, and then they are off.

Soon, on the other side of the wall, the body will be found, the alarm raised. _Germanotta_, they'll say, with frightened looks, in awe and terror, _the red lady_. By then it will be far too late.

Weeks or months from now, in some other town, some other city, she will eventually be sighted. As a nun, a maidservant, a candlemaker. Or a lord, or fortune-teller, or thief.

Perhaps you'll see her; perhaps you won't.


End file.
